by David Bagchi
‘The same.’
‘Yes, I see it is the same again! You have the same name twice. Ha, ha, ha!’ He cast around to his constable, who began laughing as heartily.
‘Indeed,’ I said coldly. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Inspector?’
‘I understand that you were visited here this afternoon by a young woman by the name of Miss Briony Lodge. Is that so?’
‘I can neither confirm nor deny it.’
The inspector suddenly looked flustered. ‘But these informations I have from my constable received! It is impossible that he could be mistaken.’
‘Inspector, would you kindly get to the point?’
‘The point is that the woman who calls herself Briony Lodge is a confidence trickster. Oh, yes, we have known about this young lady for quite some time. She approaches young bachelor men, tells them some far-fetched tale about how she is being followed, or some such story, and that she needs their protection. Before they know it, they are lending her a large amount of money to leave the country, she makes her escape and is never seen again. Not by them, that is. She dyes her hair, changes her name, and moves on to her next mark. Quite a lucrative business.’
At this, Harris coughed significantly. His meaning was unmistakable: ‘I told you so, you half-witted chump.’
George also began coughing. In his case, however, it signified only that he had snaffled a dry biscuit from the tray and found, too late, that there was no tea left to go with it.
‘That changes things, Inspector. I must make a clean breast of it and apologize for not being frank with you from the start. The young lady you mentioned was here. And, yes, she did ask for my protection. I have no reason to believe that, in the fullness of time, she would not have unfolded the rest of her scheme in exactly the manner you describe.’
At this, Lestrade turned to his constable and uttered the single triumphant word, ‘So!’
‘So!’ the constable agreed.
‘Tell me, Mr Jerome,’ Lestrade continued. ‘What was the precise nature of the jeopardy that our Miss Lodge—as she calls herself—described to you? It is important that we know exactly what she said. Did she give you anything? Did she show you any letters, for instance?’
‘Letters? No. She had no letters. What was it she said, Harris? Something about a one-eyed Chinaman with a peg leg, wasn’t it? I remember that. How could one forget! And did he not have someone in tow with him? An Italian, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s right, J. An Italian count with a duelling scar on his left cheek and a collection of specially trained white rabbits which never leaves his side.’
‘As you can see, Inspector, it was a far-fetched tale she spun. And to think I was taken in by her!’
‘Indeed,’ replied Lestrade, thoughtfully. ‘But she gave you no papers of any kind, nor showed any to you?’
‘I’m afraid not. It may be that she was saving that little wrinkle up for a future visit.’
‘Well, Mr Jerome—gentlemen—I see that our work here is done. But if she makes contact again, let me know at once. Do not try contacting me at the Yard. I am on surveillance at the moment and rarely at my desk. My card. I am at this address known.’
Lestrade stood up to go. As he did so, he said something which quite astonished us.
‘You are fortunate, are you not, Mr Jerome, to have rooms above those of the celebrated detective Sherlock Holmes. He must be a most stimulating neighbour to have.’
‘Sherlock Holmes is J.’s First Floor Front! How extraordinary—we were just speaking about him,’ said Harris.
Lestrade muttered something under his breath to his constable about idiots, then made for the door. His constable hurried to open it. Was it the swiftness of the constable’s movement that explains what happened next? I know not. Whatever the reason, the atavistic beast that lies within the soul of every fox terrier awoke in all its terrible fury, and Montmorency leaped at the constable, pulling at the sleeve of his jacket. For a moment the constable looked as if he would draw his truncheon and dash the little dog’s brains out; but one glance at George, who had risen and was advancing rapidly towards him, made him think better of it, and an instant later both our visitors had shown themselves out.
‘Well done, George,’ I said.
‘If he had touched Montmorency, I’d have swung for him, copper or not,’ said George, who had evidently caught some of Harris’s cockney cant. ‘But what was all that nonsense you and Harris were spouting about Chinamen and Italian rabbits? I don’t remember her saying anything about that. Mind you, I suppose I could have nodded off…’
‘He’s got a point, J., I played along with you, but what was that all about? It’s a serious offence to lie to a police officer,’ said Harris.
‘It is also a serious offence to impersonate a police officer,’ I responded, and waited to see the full effect of my revelation upon my interlocutors. ‘How many Germans do you suppose Scotland Yard employs at the rank of inspector?’
‘A German? Yes, of course, a German!’ said George and Harris in unison.
Our jaunts through Germany had taught us one invaluable lesson, and that was how to recognize the common-or-garden male of the species.
‘Was it the discourteous manner in which he treated his verbs that first put you on to him?’ asked Harris.
‘No. As a matter of fact I noticed it even before that—when he made a joke about my name. No Englishman would ever be so ungentlemanly as to make light of a person’s name to his face. Behind his back, of course; but to his face, never. It is simply not done, and a genuine Scotland Yard officer would have known that.’
Montmorency—heroic Montmorency—put his paws upon my knee and looked deeply into my eyes. Dogs instinctively know when to give and when to withhold praise, the better to insure good behaviour in their humans. He was foaming a bit at the mouth, but I put this down to the excitement of the last few minutes.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ George admitted, bravely. ‘Just because the man was a German does not mean he cannot be a real policeman—it’s not cast-iron proof, I mean, is it?’ It was a surprisingly good point, for George, and for a moment I was at a loss to answer him.
‘What on earth has Montmorency got in his mouth?’ exclaimed Harris.
‘I don’t know,’ I said, realizing that what I had mistaken for canine spittle was in fact a white laundry tag between Montmorency’s teeth. It was this he had been trying to show me, and this that he had wrested so tenaciously from the constable’s sleeve. I took the tag. It read:
CUBITT & SON
Theatrical Costume Hire.
Underneath was typed the legend:
1 X POLICE (LGE).
A date by which the item had to be returned to the costumiers was written beneath that, in blue laundry marker.
‘Well done, Montmorency!’ we said in unison.
Chapter Four
Mrs Hudson’s true reason for tolerating Holmes—On the dangers of devoted Clio-worship—Mrs Hudson takes charge—We set a trap—Observation of Mrs Hudson’s methods profitable
‘Well, I can only say that I’m very sorry, gents: I was flustered and just on my way out, and must have told Boots to take the young miss to see the gentlemen in the Second Floor Front, when I meant the First. It’s an easy mistake to make. Still, it worked out all right in the end, didn’t it? I mean, the young miss got to see you, and you’ve taken up the cudgels on her behalf. Besides, Mr Holmes wasn’t here to see her anyway—he’s been out gallivanting all night in one of his disguises, I don’t doubt.’
‘But why did you never tell us that our downstairs neighbour was Mr Holmes? Think of all the dollymops we might have impressed if we could have told them,’ complained Harris.
‘Yes, well, I don’t know what sort of a house they keep where you live, Mr Harris, but I’ll thank you not to use profundities under my roof. Besides, Mr Holmes is one of my best tenants, and I didn’t want you bothering him with trifles—like get
ting him to find your dog when it runs off after a cat and gets lost. And don’t say you wouldn’t, because you would, wouldn’t you?’
‘One of your best tenants? One of your best tenants!’ I repeated for effect. ‘You do nothing but complain about him, Mrs Hudson: if he’s not shooting holes in your ceiling he’s messing with chemicals and making a vile stench all over the house. The other week I thought we must have had the drains up. But, no, it turns out it was your perfect tenant conducting an experiment with sulphur and ammonia.’
‘Well, Mr J., you do have a point. I admit that Mr Holmes’s behaviour can be a little erotic. But having him as a tenant means I get Dr Watson as a bonus, like. And when you get to my age, and when you’re a martyr to various veins, like I hope none of you ever is, bringing a doctor round to the house gets expensive. And Dr Watson is always such a kind gentleman.’
‘Ah!’ I said. ‘The truth at last!’
‘Oh, no, Mr J., don’t get me wrong. I like all my tenants. I was just as much protecting your interests, you know.’
‘How is that, Mrs Hudson? Pray tell us,’ I rejoined, sceptically.
‘Well,’ she said, hesitating just a moment longer than was comfortable for any of us. ‘You’re a famous writer, aren’t you?’
‘I have that honour.’
‘And if Mr Holmes was introduced to you, he’d be up here every five minutes bothering you for facts about, that thing of yours, you know, the Crucible of Cider.’
‘The Crucifer of Sidon. A Tale of the Crusades,’ I corrected.
‘That’s the one. He’d go mad for that, would Mr Holmes. All knowledge is grist for his milk. He’s a real polymorph. And not just you. Mr George is a banker. He’d be forever asking him about financial matters, reversible bonds and that sort of thing. And there’s Mr Harris too. I’m sure he does something…’
‘Actually, Mrs Hudson, I’m a solicitor,’ said Harris proudly.
‘There you are, see: that’s a sort of a job, isn’t it, dear? Mr Holmes would be forever coming to you and asking about contractive and tortuous law, and all that stuff. Your lives wouldn’t be worth living once he got to know who you all were.’
Mrs Hudson was right, of course. Despite our youth, as a group of friends we have already made our mark in our chosen professions—some, naturally, more than others. I flatter myself, for instance, that I have the business of history pretty much sewn up. What I don’t know about history is frankly not worth knowing. But there is, as my sage landlady indicated, a danger in celebrity. If it ever became common knowledge in the locality that this humble worshipper at the shrine of Clio dwelt in their midst, there would be a queue down to Marylebone Road and back. People would be continually asking me to settle arguments about who won what battle when and which king came first and whether Napoleon wore his hat like that or like that. Although Mrs Hudson can be very annoying at times, and although her choice of words can at times be inept, she is the salt of the earth, the strong rock on which Britain’s greatness has been built. She is considerate—and of how many people can you say that nowadays?
‘Yes, well, I’m glad that’s settled. I’ll leave you gents to work out how you are going to help Miss Briony.’
‘Ah, there we have a difficulty, Mrs Hudson,’ I said.
‘How do you mean?’ said our landlady.
‘We’ve so little to go on,’ explained George.
‘Nonsense,’ said Mrs Hudson brusquely. ‘You’re trying to get this mysterious letter-writer, or rather envelope-writer, before he gets to her, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I admitted, not quite knowing where Mrs Hudson’s reasoning would take us.
‘And you’ve also got this great hulking German, who calls himself Lestrade. He’s a wolf in cheap clothing if ever there was, and he clearly means her no good either. So it’s oblivious what you should do. Mr George, you should be protecting Miss Briony—no-one in their right mind would try anything with someone of your statue prowling about. The other two should be looking for this mysterious correspondent.’
‘But where do we start?’ Harris asked.
‘Why, Mr Harris, that’s simplicity itself! He’s following an itinerant, isn’t he? All you have to do is plot his process on a map, work out where he’ll be when, and intercede him on the way.’
‘But how do we do that?’ I asked.
‘If one of you gents was kind enough to allow me somewhere to sit… thank you. You, Mr George, go and find me a map of the Thames. And you, Mr Harris, go and find me a pair of dividers. And you, Mr J.’
‘Yes?’ I said expectantly.
‘Do something useful and ask Maria to make us some tea. I’ll have this wrapped up before bedtime.’
Mrs Hudson’s way of getting something done is to get everyone else running about for her while she sits down shouting orders. I once had an uncle like her, Uncle Podger. But as his story is not very relevant I shall omit it for the sake of brevity.
When we were all seated around my dining table once more, our respective errands successfully completed, Mrs Hudson spread out the map and we pinned the corners down with the cruets. She used the dividers to estimate the average daily distance travelled by our antagonist, then fixed them at that measure to estimate his likely future rate of progress.
‘Now this man, whoever he is, was in Oxford a week ago today. That’s Thursday last week. Friday, he was in Abingdon, Sunday in Wallingford, Monday in Goring, and Tuesday in Pangbourne. He’s taking ‘is time, isn’t he? Let me see: at that rate he’d have been in Reading Wednesday (Miss Lodge would’ve got the letter today, but after she left home in the morning.) So tonight he’ll probably put up at Henley.’
Mrs Hudson was again right. For a downstream man he was making heavy weather of it. Either he was unfamiliar with the art of rowing, or he was aiming just to stay at the most comfortable hotels along the route. He sounded to me like the sort of man who would probably stay at Maidenhead.
‘Then tomorrow he’ll probably stay at Maidenhead,’ said Mrs Hudson.
My contempt for the man was growing by the second. Maidenhead, as any upstream man will tell you, is the very negation of the spirit of the Thames. The Thames is a manly river for manly types. Father Thames can be a hard task-master; but he rewards hard work fairly, with aching muscles and a sense of achievement. When you have done a day’s work on that river, you know about it, and you can pat yourself on the back (if your muscles allow you to move at all, that is) for having done it. But Maidenhead is not for the hard-working man. It is for the soft man to take his wife, or someone who can pass as his wife, for the weekend. One night, they should tow Maidenhead downriver and out into the North Sea, preferably in a Force Eight. Then the Maidenhead swell and his fair companion would know what the upstream man means by a dirty weekend.
‘Saturday he’ll be at Staines,’ Mrs Hudson continued. ‘Sunday Kingston, and on Monday he’ll be knocking on a certain door in St John’s Wood.’
‘Then we shall set off for Maidenhead first thing,’ I announced.
‘First thing, Mr J.?’, said Mrs Hudson. There was a distinct note of scepticism in her voice. For some reason, she did not have me marked down as an early riser.
‘On the dot, Mrs H.’, I replied resolutely.
‘Well, they do say that punctuation is the politeness of kings. But let me play the Devil’s avocado for a moment. Suppose you do meet this man, the letter-writer, in Maidenhead: how would you know what he looks like?’
Mrs Hudson, once again, had a point.
‘Then what should we do?’
‘That’s easy. At crack of dawn, Mr Harris should go to Goring and Streatly, and you to Pangbourne. You should both ask about all the strangers who were there on Monday or Tuesday, whichever—and especially any who visited the local post office to send any letters to London. Make a careful note of all the descriptions you are given and any names, and then meet at Maidenhead and swap notes. By a process of illumination, whoever is on both your lists must be a suspect. W
ith any luck, you’ll be able to track him down in his hotel that night, and tell him his little game is up. Otherwise, you go on to Staines the next morning, and wait to see who shows up there.’
For a moment, there was silence. All of us simply stared at Mrs Hudson. We saw in her eyes the gleam, the intensity, as she plotted the ambush of our human quarry. And in that moment we four were transported by some magic of common humanity back, back, back to the twilight of the primeval forest, where our Neanderthal ancestors, gathered in the flickering light of the camp fire, shared their tales of the chase or laid out stratagems for the morrow’s hunt, in grunts and groans too deep for words. For all our trappings of civilization, for all our technology—the tram, the steam engine, the electrical hot-iron—it takes but little to reduce us to our primitive state even now. ‘Reduce’, I say; but who among us can claim that our existence then was not more honest, more noble, more uncluttered? And who truly would prefer our ‘modern’ life—a life of artifice, of pretence, of unnecessary lumber? No—give me the forest, the stout bow, the straight arrow, the fellowship of the chase, and the primordial grunting of the primitive Neanderthal.
‘Or we could just go to Reading,’ said Harris.
‘How do you mean, Mr Harris?’ Mrs Hudson asked.
‘Well, he was there more recently than he was at either Goring or Pangbourne, and people’s memories of him will be fresher.’
‘That’s not a bad idea, Mr Harris, but I think you’ll find that my suggestion has certain advantages over it. A stranger is more likely to be noticed in a small, quiet place than a large, busy one. Besides, you could go round all the hotels and guest houses in both Goring and Streatly in a morning. In Reading, it would take you a week, and you still couldn’t be sure you’d seen them all.’
‘That’s true,’ we said in unison.
‘But Mrs Hudson, it is as if you have thought this all through in advance. Your powers of analysis and strategy amaze me,’ I added.
‘Oh, Mr J.: such flatulence! You are very kind; but it all comes quite easy to me. I’m a landlady, you see. A landlady has to have good powers of observation, to see whether the slavey is drawing off liquor from the descanters. You’ve also got to be a good student of human caricature, else how could you choose a lodger who won’t do a moonlight flit or murder you in your bed? Then there’s the whole business of planning ahead, making sure we don’t run out of your Gentleman’s Relish, Mr J., and that there’s enough cold Bass in for when Mr Harris comes calling. Compared with all that, your little problem doesn’t seem all that untractionable. I know it’s a fault with me to be too self-defecating. But on this occasion, gentlemen, I dare say you won’t go far wrong if you observe my methods and apply them. Mr Holmes always does.’